


Cataglottism

by stoprobbers



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 17:01:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1655855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoprobbers/pseuds/stoprobbers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cataglottism (n.): kissing with tongue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cataglottism

On the plane home she makes a pact with herself, a wise pact, a good pact, a pact she knows she will break almost immediately. It is a pact born of memories of the other times that her world turned upside down, first when she went with him in the first place, then when he changed his face without telling her he could, and finally when she found herself trapped in a universe not her own: don't rush; take it slow. She knows this is the only way not to lose her mind, to process and integrate this sudden enormous shift one piece at a time so that she can keep herself in the process.

She knows she will break it because she can still  _taste_  him.

He looks old and weary and wary in the seat next to her, fiddling with the buttons on the armrest and a frayed thread on the cuff of his suit. His  _blue_ suit. She frowns at it and he notices.

"What?"

You're blue."

He looks offended at that and touches his hair protectively.

"Not  _all_  of me!" he sniffs haughtily, then deflates a little bit, "Though still not ginger. That's not fair, is it? Donna was ginger. Hmph."

She can't hold her in her chuckle as she reaches out and runs her hand through his hair. "No, you're still sort of brown."

"Brown and blue," he looks at her, eyes guarded again. "Do you like the blue?"

"Not really, no," she admits, her fingers slipping down to brush his cheek before pulling back again, "Or, I like the brown better."

"I'll get a new brown suit, then," he declares as if that's solved everything. Something heavy grows in the pit of her stomach.

"You don't have to," she says softly. "I mean, you can, but you don't have to be him. I mean, who you were before?"

She's tripping over her words, trying to avoid making the hurt in his eyes sharper, but it's not working. He looks away briefly and she tries again.

"I mean, you get a choice now. It's a new universe, a new life. You get to choose all kinds of things — your job, your age, your name."

"I already chose my name," he says sharply, still not looking at her. "I chose my name a long time ago."

"Yeah but you can't really put 'Doctor' on a diver's license."

"I don't want you to call me a different name." He turns his gaze to her and she can't quite name what she sees in the depth of his eyes but it's sharp and painful.

"I won't," she swears with conviction she hopes she conveys. "But you still need a passport, and your passport needs a name. You could be anyone. John Smith again, or what was that name you used in Scotland? 1879?"

"James McCrimmon," he says softly, looking away again. She wonders why he sounds so wistful but doesn't push it.

"Right, James McCrimmon. You could be anyone. Englebert Humperdink." She hopes a little humor will help.

He turns to her, one eyebrow raised in surprise and amusement. "Don't you think someone'd notice a cribbed name like that?"

"Nah, he doesn't exist over here."

"What?!" His other eyebrow flies up to meet its partner. "What kind of hell world is this?!"

She laughs and against all her better judgment leans in to press a kiss to his lips again. He is very, very still for a moment that seems to stretch into eternity and then he moves, cupping her face with a not-so-light touch, slanting her mouth over his just so and opening his lips beneath her. His tongue sneaks out for the briefest taste before retreating and she can't help the small noise of protest she makes. She can feel the slightest curl of his lips before his tongue returns for a longer, deeper taste.

It is so very unwise, she knows, to rush into this, but he tastes of time and the universe, of smoke and she  _thinks_  that's a hint of banana, and even though he has, in the last half-day, found her and lost her again, split into two different people and forced her to choose between them, left her in a parallel universe she does not love but cannot hate either with a clone or a copy or perhaps just another him, another  _impossible_  man, she thinks everything might be okay if they can just keep doing this, keep kissing, keep tasting, forever and ever. She cannot imagine one reason to come up for air.

"Oi, you two, save it for later!"

Her mother's voice is like snow shoved down the back of your winter coat and they break apart with a loud, wet sound, both panting and horrified by the intrusion. The Doctor is blushing, flaming bright red, looking for all the world that he wishes to be sucked out of the plane and it makes something in her chest go very warm and liquid.

"Later," she promises and his smile is like the sun.

***

"Engineer?"

"Eh."

"Physicist?"

"Ehhhh."

"Photographer?"

"Ehhhhhhh."

"Super secret alien-investigating spy?"

"Now you're just making fun of me."

"Well, Pete  _has_  offered–"

"And I already turned him down. Torchwood," the Doctor made a face, "no thank you."

It is nearly a month after they both found themselves rather permanently locked in Pete's World, and he still hasn't filled out his identity paperwork. A very stern and, the Doctor had to admit, impressively threatening phone call earlier that morning had forced the issue, which is how he came to be sitting at Rose's kitchen island in a pair of sweatpants and a cardigan trying to come up with a profession for yet another empty box while Rose helped from her perch upside-down in an armchair a dozen feet away, her face slowly turning red as blood flowed down to her head.

 "Member of Parliament?"

"You're joking."

"CEO?"

"Never in a million years."

"Police officer? Hairstylist? Aesthetician?"

"Why, do you want me to wax you?"

Her pink cheeks turn very, very red very fast and he shoots her a lascivious grin before climbing off the stool and padding over to her. She is in pajamas as well, a loose pair of sweats not unlike his own and a tank top, and in her current position he can see the tops of her breasts above the neckline, exposed by gravity. He watches her blush spread from her face down her neck and to her chest as she struggles to meet his eyes.

Intimacy, he's discovered in the last four weeks, makes Rose Tyler blush a lot. He has kissed her hundreds of times, makes a point to do it as often as possible, and there have been many touches and soft noises in the dark, but they've toed the line that once crossed can never be uncrossed so far. With each passing day, however, kisses and touches have grown bolder, innuendos less veiled and more frequent, and he feels it in the way his blood fizzes whenever he's around her; he's not going to be able to hold out much longer.

Now he kneels in front of her chair and, careful not to accidentally break her nose with his chin, kisses her upside-down mouth. She opens immediately and though it is awkward, all wrong angles and strange sensations, he takes his time with her all the same. When he pulls back she flips over and slides off the chair, curling into his side as he rests his back against it. When she is right side-up he kisses her again, a more familiar and welcome series of motions he knows well. He cups her cheek, holding her head in place as he teases her tongue with his, stroking and then swirling and then just touching the tips together. She moans and reaches for his shirt to ball in her fist and pull him closer, but he's not wearing a shirt, just the unbuttoned cardigan and her hand meets skin and chest hair only. Her nails scratch lightly and he shivers, hauling her closer with an arm around her ribcage.

She straddles his lap like she belongs there, arching her back slightly when he slips his hands under the back of her vest and up over firm muscles and soft skin. Her own hands wander, scratching up and down his chest and then pushing the cardigan from his shoulders as best she can, which is not very best at all as he is utterly unwilling to remove his hands from her shirt, sliding them around to her front instead, cupping her breasts beneath the cotton. She arches more, mouth separating from his with a pop as she gasps for air and he rubs his thumbs over puckered nipples. She makes a little breathy squeak at that he likes quite a lot.

"Professor," he decides against her neck, nipping and kissing and sucking as he works his way down to where his hands are. She makes another sound, this one clearly confused, as he pushes her shirt up to expose her breasts to the air and his mouth. He swirls his tongue around one nipple, then the other, and her arms bump against his head when she reaches down and pulls the vest the rest of the way off her.

"Professor of anatomy," he murmurs against her skin, "Concentration in cataglottism."

"Are you talking to me?" she asks breathlessly, tugging his head back up to her mouth. He kisses her deeply, letting her go momentarily to allow her to push his sweater off of him, to press her chest against his and  _oh_  that is a  _delicious_  feeling. He shifts them, lays her down on the not-so-plush carpet, fitting himself between her legs and pressing his hardening cock into her core, imagining for a moment there is no fabric between them, what that heat must feel like with no barriers. It makes him groan and push again, wanting and hoping and wanting some more. Her hands trail down his back and under the waistband of his sweats, gripping his arse tight and pressing up into him as well. He thinks they might be on the verge of a breakthrough.

"Yes," he manages, not quite able to let the conversation drop entirely.

"And what's cata–cata–whatever you just said?"

"Cataglottism," he says, nipping at her nipple again, tugging with his teeth and then soothing with his tongue, loving the way one of her hands abruptly flies up to hold his head in place. He slips one hand between them, touching her through two layers of cotton and her hips buck. "Kissing with tongues."

"Please," she whimpers and he knows she's not really paying attention, "Doctor,  _please_."

In his fantasies the first time he ever makes love to Rose Tyler is in a big four-poster bed in the TARDIS, warm and soft and comfortable, and he takes his time with her, tasting every inch of skin, every drop of sweat and her essence, making her come at least twice before he enters her, pushing her to heights of pleasure that she can't speak, can't move, can't do anything afterward but kiss him and fall asleep on his chest. These fantasies are not as new as this body he's in now, not even as new as the body this body sprung from, and he has known for a long time it would never go like that, but he could never quite have predicted his first time making love to Rose Tyler would not actually be making love to her at all, but fucking on her living room floor, in an apartment her not-father bought for her in a universe entirely different from the one they both originated in.

It is spectacular.

When it is over, when he can feel his seed dripping from her onto his thigh as she curls around him, panting and sweaty and both of them definitely in need of a shower now but not quite able to stop kissing, mouths pressing lightly every few seconds as they struggle to catch their breaths, she picks up the thread of their conversation, catching him completely off guard.

"Cata-what again?"

"Huh?" he asks eloquently, staring down at her with total confusion. His blood is still buzzing and his heart is pounding and he has no idea what she is talking about.

"Professor of anatomy, you said," she trails her fingertips down his bare abdomen and that is  _not helping_  his focus. "Concentration in something. Cata-something."

"Cataglottism," he murmurs, closing his eyes as she finds him, limp against his thigh, and cups him, stroking slowly and without much intent other than to take advantage now that she has explicit permission to touch. He shifts his hand down to her arse and squeezes, exercising the same newly discovered rights. Before she can ask what that means again he tips his head down and shows her.

***

Rose is having the most wonderful dream. She knows it is a dream because she is floating in space, in a warm pocket of gas that births stars right before her eyes. She watches them, balls of light and power spun from the threads of the universe, as the Doctor trails his hands over her skin, followed by his mouth, nipping and licking and kissing as he goes.

"Is this another anatomy lesson?" she giggles. It's their little inside joke now, his secret life as an anatomy professor (the official paperwork says physics, though they couldn't tell Pete why they thought he was just as qualified in the study of the human body thankyouverymuch), and her as his favorite research topic. He chuckles, kisses the underside of her breast and then above her navel, spreading his long fingers over her hipbones.

"Seems appropriate," he murmurs, his voice a deep rumble against her stomach. "Here, in the cradle of life, surrounded by newly born stars…"

"You're romantic tonight."

"I'm romantic all the time," he says and suddenly he is in front of her, kissing her quickly but deeply before disappearing again. She pouts.

"No fair."

"Who's fair?"

"Kiss me again."

"Where?" he kisses her left nipple. "Here?"

Then over, to her sternum, "Or here?"

"No–"

"What about here?" he says, dropping three kisses in a line down her stomach and she shifts impatiently.

"Well, maybe…"

"Or here? Is this what you want?"

His shoulders spread her legs and he presses a kiss to the most intimate part of her, already warm and wet and waiting for him. She can't help the way her hips buck and it is that movement, that little involuntary buck that rockets her out of her dream world and back into her bed, where her very real Doctor is laying on his stomach between her thighs and drawing tight concentric circles over her clit with his very, very talented tongue. She moans and grasps his hair, holding him in place. He speeds up a little, a half dozen flicks that send the most incredible feelings sparking down every nerve in her body, then pulls away and slides back up her body again.

"Do you know you talk in your sleep?" he says, bending to kiss her deeply. She opens her mouth without hesitation, tasting herself on his tongue. It is not the first time.

"What did I say?" she asks between tantalizing assaults of his mouth, smoothing her hands up and down his bare back as he kisses her again and again. She feels dizzy, like her head is too light and about to float away. The rest of her body is singing for him, wanting to feel his mouth and his hands everywhere again, like in her dream.

"You told me to kiss you again."

"And you did?"

"What can I say," he pulls back and shoots her a cocky grin, his voice dripping with insincere nonchalance, "I woke up hungry."

"Oh that's–"  _terrible_  is how she means to end that sentence, but faster than she can blink he is between her thighs again and his mouth is on her, nipping at her clit just before he draws his tongue up one side of her cunt and back down the other and all words just fly out of her head. She moans and presses herself into his face, feeling the way his smug chuckle creates delicious vibrations.

 _Cataglottism_ , she thinks, she always thinks that when he does this, when he dips his tongue into her and swirls it around until he manages to find that spot deep inside her,  _how_  does he  _know_  about that  _spot_?? She'd heard of it for years and never thought it really existed but he finds it every time, with his tongue or his fingers or the right twist of his hips when he thrusts into her, sending her soaring each time. For a moment her mind goes totally blank as pleasure washes through her and then he withdraws, returning his tongue to her clit and a far more maddening pace of pleasure building. What was she on about again? Oh, right, cataglottism, kissing with tongue. The Doctor has a marvelous tongue, perhaps her favorite tongue in any universe, in any reality, in any time. It doesn't lick, not like most men lick and suck and tease; it dances against her flesh, prodding and coaxing and teasing and enticing the most incredible sensations she has ever felt. She is still half-asleep and buzzing with pleasure, every cell in her body feeling alive. His lips surround her, that swollen bud teased even bigger and more sensitive by that magnificent tongue, and latch on, sucking hard before his tongue resumes flicking against her at a speed which she is  _sure_  humans cannot achieve. Another little bit of alien lurking inside him and she hopes it never fades away. She's keening now, inarticulate noises pouring from her as her hips twist and buck involuntarily, trying to get closer and get away all at once from this pleasure that is almost too much to bear. In a practiced motion he slides one arm around one hip, holding her tightly in place, and shifts so he can slide two fingers from his other hand into her. It is enough, almost too much, and it sends her rocketing over the edge into her orgasm in an embarrassingly short amount of time.

It feels too good for her to care.

When the roar of her own blood and breath has faded in her ears and she can feel the world around her again, she opens her eyes and finds him hovering above her, cradled between her legs with a hand on either side of her head. She reaches up and winds her arms around his neck, puling him down for a long, slow kiss. His cock, hard and very warm, nudges against her opening but she's far too sensitive for that right now. Carefully he moves so that his shaft slides slowly over her, a little taste of what's to come, a modicum of relief for him in a way that is almost but not too much for her to bear. She sighs into his mouth, wanting and needing and wanting some more. She wills her body to calm faster in hopes of getting him inside her sooner.

"Good morning," he says against her mouth, pulling back slightly to drop chaste kisses at each corner and then on her nose. She shifts, nuzzles her nose against his, not quite able to open her eyes again.

"Morning," she echoes. Their lips brush as she speaks. "Wake up with a craving?"

"Something like that," he chuckles and waits until her eyes crack open a little bit to continue speaking, "I love you."

He says these words now more often than he ever did before, more often than she thought he was capable of, but still not as often your average human man, she thinks. It is not foreign to hear them said, but it is a thrill nonetheless, and she can tell by his face that the way she smiles when he says them is one of his very favorite things.

"I love you," she replies, and though she says it more often than he, she relishes the words every time. And she pulls him down for another kiss.


End file.
